


Future Simon Versus Future Simon

by runrarebit



Series: Misfits Moments [19]
Category: Misfits (TV 2009)
Genre: AU, Alternate Timeline, Bottom!Nathan, Dead!Nathan, Future Simon is a dick, Future Simon is a slut shamer, Jealousy, M/M, Mentions of Crossdressing, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, Rimming, Voyeurism, arse to mouth, envy - Freeform, that piss enema business again, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 14:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18919129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runrarebit/pseuds/runrarebit
Summary: Set just afterPretty BoyIt's S02E04 and time should be up for Future Simon- only nothing has gone as planned, things are slipping,he'sslipping. What's he going to do now? Especially since Tim's running around looking for Conti, Roxy, and his money-





	Future Simon Versus Future Simon

**Author's Note:**

> Future Simon is a dick.
> 
> Also, thank you all so much for reading, leaving comments, and for the kudos! I like knowing that you're liking my fics.

He shouldn’t be watching them; he just doesn’t know what else to do. It may be early, it may still be dark, but it’s today, the day Ollie dies, the day the psycho with the gun shows up, the day that leads directly to his death— but he can’t die, not and leave everything like this. He’s not sure how this other Simon has fucked everything up so badly, but he has, and with the way things are there’s almost no chance he’ll be able to get with Alisha. So this means he can’t die, not just yet, he has to live and—

He doesn’t know what.

Seth was no help whatsoever. Not only did the man not have another time travel power on hand, but he also didn’t have any power that lets someone travel between alternate timelines. He’s told the man the moment a power like that shows up he has to ring him, but he’s not sure Seth will. Apparently the man doesn’t much like having his office broken into and having his face punched in by a man in a mask. 

It’s terrifying, not knowing what to expect. He’s lived so long now, falling in love, getting ready, watching Alisha die, going back— but this isn’t right. 

Nathan is riding the other him, long, slender torso upright, the other him’s hands all over Nathan’s hips and waist and arse. They can’t even see him. He’s broken into the Community Centre— and not for the first time— he’s hidden, but not that well, hidden so he can watch—and they can’t even sense the danger— _Is he a danger to them?_

He listens to Nathan’s soft pants and sighs, that annoying mewling about how good “Barry” feels inside him, how much he wants “Barry’s” spunk up in him, how perfect “Barry’s” cock is— He kind of feels like a danger to them. It disgusts him. Angers him—

This is not the way this is supposed to go.

And last night, creeping in to see himself hunched over Nathan, between Nathan’s legs, the Irishman in a _dress_ of all things— _He_ didn’t know how to fuck like that back then. The confident way the other Simon’d touched Nathan, the natural grind of his hips, the way they’d kissed— except he doesn’t think he fucks like that, even now, Alisha taught him a bit differently— thrusts shallower, less deep and demanding, less tongue in the kisses, touching her more gently— like she’d break. 

Nathan seems to want to be broken. 

Nathan also seems to want to _bathe_ in his spunk— which Alisha would never put up with. Condoms, always. He hasn’t even heard _mention_ of a condom in all the times he’s watched them together now. Instead Nathan _demands_ he spunk up his arse, or in his mouth, or across whatever body part the other him is obsessing over.

It makes him feel weird, thinking about it, watching it. Like a bad dream of a man he used to be. The way they are together—

Earlier, when Nathan had first woken up, when the other him was still asleep, the Irishman had pulled back the covers and seemed to actually start licking at all the dried spunk covering the other him’s groin— and then. AND THEN, Nathan had pulled the other him’s cock into his mouth and started sucking him off— without making that Simon go and clean up first. That cock had been up Nathan’s arse earlier and now it was in Nathan’s mouth, and did Nathan seem to mind? No! If he’d ever even mentioned something like that to Alisha—

Not that she would have ever let him near her arse. 

AND when the other him had pulled Nathan up and away from his cock he’d started kissing the Irishman, sticking his tongue in the man’s mouth, even though that mouth had been on a cock that had been up an arse— not that the other him seems to have many qualms about mouths and arses. One of the first times he broke in here he caught the other him licking it, Nathan’s arse— no. That sounds too nice, neat, _polite_ for the way that Simon had been _feasting_ on Nathan’s anus. 

And there’s what she said, when he rescued her— none of what he’d been led to expect, no, instead he got an earful about how she and the others had caught the other him pissing up Nathan’s arse. Like in that porn. He still remembers that porn— the blonde woman— The times he’d wanked to it. It’s like this other Simon is doing everything in his power to be as much of a pervert as possible— 

He remembers being the him before Alisha, the way he’d always had to struggle with his filthier impulses— the porn he’d watched— the things he’d done. Almost touching that unconscious girl, perving on Alisha and Kelly while he was invisible, sneaking into Sally’s house— 

But Alisha had fixed him. Being with her meant that he didn’t need to be that person. He could stop being a pervert. He didn’t need to wank to the weird porn he liked to wank to. He could have a nice, normal, loving, passionate, _satisfying,_ sexual relationship— but this other him is just throwing it all away. Discarding all the progress he made. _Wallowing_ in being the worst version of himself. 

It must be Nathan’s influence. That’s the only difference. 

What a difference it is though— that he’s _lowered_ himself to even touch—

No. He shouldn’t think like that. By the end of it Nathan was a friend, he’s sure of it. Maybe not the best and most loyal friend, but a friend nonetheless—

But he’s such a— such a— He’s a _slut._ A _slag._

What kind of person wants— 

Does— 

Begs for— 

Lets their boyfriend—

Worse is that it’s hot, watching them. Arousing. Like the filthy porn he used to enjoy. His cock hardens, swells, blood surging downwards when he sees them together. It must be because the other him is still a version of _him_ — some kind of fucked up empathy. 

He watches hands that might as well be his own hands start playing with Nathan’s cock and balls, cringes at the flow of praise this pulls out of the Irishman, the mewls of pleasure, the whines of “Barry.” How can this other him put up with it, being called Barry? It used to irritate the shit out of him, like he wasn’t even there. Invisible. Interchangeable with some other man.

It would be worse though, wouldn’t it, if it was “Simon” instead of “Barry” that Nathan was calling for. If Nathan was whimpering about how perfect it felt to have “Simon’s” cock up him, how good “Simon” fucks him, how he never wants “Simon” to stop fucking him, how much he needs “Simon’s” spunk— if it was “Simon” Nathan was begging to call him pretty.

He might get confused if it was “Simon,” but since it’s “Barry” he can prevent his thoughts from getting tangled. He can keep the distance that he needs, not get distracted, remember the mission— the mission is to get this Simon together with Alisha, to fix this Nathan situation, to get history back on track.

He just has no idea how to do it. Obviously he needs to separate this Simon from Nathan— Alisha’s never going to go for it if— but is she going to go for it even if they do split up? After the things she’s seen? He doesn’t know. 

He just needs to make one of them see that the other is the one for them, their soulmate— But will that be enough? 

Will it?

What he really needs to do is get rid of Nathan. How though? The easiest answer is to make him find someone else, break up with this Simon— Marnie? Nathan had liked Marnie last time. Where is Marnie though? Where is—

‘Just there, just there, just there, like that, come on, come on—’ Nathan is whining, head thrown back, hips grinding down almost violently. 

His cock throbs, pressed hard and uncomfortable against the front of his thick trousers. He hates that Nathan is sexy, that _he_ finds Nathan sexy, not just this other, poor deluded self. He tries to remind himself of all the reasons he should never find Nathan sexy— but his mind gets caught on that day on the roof, just before the Irishman’s brother had shown up. All that bare skin, hands rubbing everywhere, sunscreen topped nipples, the hairy, shaded crack of Nathan’s arse and the way he’d tried to convince himself in turn that that he could/could not just see the edges of Nathan’s anus. He’d gone invisible and wanked in the toilets after that, once Nathan had left with Jamie. Shame burns in him. 

That reminds him—

Worst case scenario he could always slip Nathan an E and then—

No. _NO._

He’s slipping, Becoming something—something else. It’s the loss of Alisha; she was his _salvation._ Without her who is he?

Nathan squeaks, body flailing as he comes, watery spunk splattering across the other him’s hand and chest and belly. His own hand goes to his trouser front, touch rough, hips riding his palm for a moment before he can convince himself to pull his hand away. ‘Do you want me to—?’ he hears his own voice ask, watches Nathan toss his head back and forth, beg for it, whining that he wants the other him to keep going, to spunk up his arse. A couple of thrusts and that Simon obliges. 

He hates the way Nathan sighs at the sensation. The relief, the _satisfaction_ there. As if it’s all he could ever ask for, some man giving him a creampie. _Slut._

Fuck his cock is throbbing, he needs to get out of here, needs to go and— And _what_ , after the wank? Manage the situation, he supposes, do everything in his power to prevent Alisha getting shot—

Maybe when Nathan tells the gunman that _he’s_ Conti it will teach this Simon a lesson about exactly how pointless it is to be in a relationship with the Irishman. Nathan’s never going to really care about him, never _sacrifice_ himself for him. Nathan is incapable of being serious about anything, let alone a relationship, let alone _love._ The Irishman probably can’t even really feel the emotion. Nathan’s just in it for the fun— he has to be. 

He watches as Nathan dismounts, limbs wobbly, the other Simon’s cock slipping slick and wet out of the obscene gape of the Irishman’s arse. Nathan shudders at the sensation, and again as an oozing trail of lube and spunk dribbles out of him. The other him reaches for the Irishman, helping him lie down with that curly head leaning on his shoulder, and then reaches back, fingers slipping into the slick, chasing it up Nathan’s thighs to— The Irishman mewls, hips working—

His cock _throbs,_ a spurt of precum escaping, adding to the wet patch growing in his underwear at the head of his cock. He needs to go. Needs to leave. Needs to—if he still had his original power, if Alisha hadn’t convinced him to sell it, he could stay, use it to make himself invisible, shove his hands down his pants without worrying that he’ll make some sound to alert the other him— No. NO. He’s not going to— He’s not going to—

He wanks, hidden in the shadow of the building, hand stripping his cock hard and mercilessly— no gentleness left in him in this life without Alisha. He tries to think of her, her breasts, the taste of her cunt, the way she would flutter around him when she came— she liked it more gently, said he needed to be careful because of how big he is— why is it that he feels envy at how that other Simon can be with Nathan? The ease with which Nathan just _takes_ it. Fuck. Fuck— his spunk dribbles sadly against the wall of the Community Centre, down to the ground. 

Later, sun up, he lurks on the roofs and looks down, waiting for what’s to happen. It is strange to see Ollie— this man who he only met for a moment, and who he knows more as a polaroid on a wall than a person. For a moment he wonders if he should save him this time— but no. Nikki needs his heart, and he needs Nikki to distract Curtis. 

It’s funny, he can’t remember if he and Nathan had walked so close together last time, the Irishman nattering on, the other him looking on in turn fond, a little disgusted, and amused. The other him— it’s not just in bed, is it, that this other him is different? This Simon moves with greater ease in his own body than he can imagine doing before he got with Alisha. This other Simon—

He watches as this alternate version of himself catches at Nathan’s waist as the Irishman wanders past, pulling him in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before letting him go— prompting a round of complaints from Nathan, a round of grabby hands that seems only satisfied once they start walking hand in hand, Simon pushing the rubbish cart, Nathan picking up litter and dumping it into it. 

It’s almost the same on the other side, Curtis and Alisha— and that’s wrong too. Alisha should be acting cold towards Curtis, the other man frustrated, none of this leaning in close and sharing secret jokes, none of the way they keep smiling at each other, looking at each other— bodies a mirror of the desire shown in the other him and Nathan. Poor Kelly, in the middle— except then she drifts over by Nathan and the two of them are cackling about something, so it’s just new, soon-dead Ollie that’s alone.

He hears it. The sound of the car accelerating. 

Countdown.

Three.

Two.

One.

The runner appears. Curtis speaks, ‘What’s with this guy?’ The car rounds the corner.

He waits and watches as the man gets out of the car and asks where Conti is. Now. Now is when Nathan will— ‘Oh, _Conti_ — He went that way,’ the Irishman says, pointing vaguely behind the group, ‘You just missed him.’

What? That’s not right—

He sees the man frown, looking in the direction Nathan pointed, before suddenly his eyes fix on Kelly. Kelly who looks entirely too much like Jimmy Cisco’s ex from the game. ‘Roxy?’

He hears the man leap to the conclusion that if Roxy is with them then one of them must be Conti— before engaging in that same spiel as last time about being arrested on their wedding day— from there it pretty much goes the same, ending in Ollie being shot in the head and the rest of them screaming and fleeing— only he doesn’t remember grabbing Nathan by the wrist last time and dragging the man along, anymore than he remembers Curtis doing the same to Alisha’s jumpsuit clad arm. 

He follows, of course, jumping from roof to roof until he has a better perspective of the Community Centre roof where they end up— but where they can’t see him. Up there Alisha huddles into Curtis’ side, careful not to make skin contact— and he can see how much the two of them want to touch properly— and it _infuriates him_ — while the other him fusses over a Nathan that’s trying to flutter around him but also keeps asking Kelly if she’s alright.

And then there’s a bit of carry-on about whether Nathan’s fucking with everyone when he says he can see Ollie— but that makes sense, Jamie didn’t die this time, and it was Jamie’s death that taught the Irishman about that particular part of his power and— now the other Simon is cuddling Nathan while Nathan panics, or whatever that emotion is, about being able to see the dead— and Curtis is trying to rewind time— and— it pretty much ends the same, aside from all the _nuances._

That night he sneaks back into the Community Centre, watches them again. The other him has got his phone out, the first time he’s seen the man use the camera on it since he’s been half-heartedly watching them— except it’s not _his_ phone, not from back then, instead it’s a fancier one, one he’d thought about getting if his had suddenly died on him— because of the good camera in it. 

Nathan is naked, on the mattress, the other Simon hovering over him like a creep, camera lens crawling all over that long, slender body. Nathan is giggling, stretching and arching his body, doing his best to show off— pouting for the camera and giving it heavy-lidded eyes. 

He looks like a twat. 

The other him doesn’t seem to mind though.

‘You going to film me while you fuck me again?’ Nathan asks, with a little wiggle and no sign he finds the idea even remotely troubling. ‘Arse or face, which one do you think’s my best angle?’

‘You don’t have a bad angle,’ the other him replies. ‘You’re beautiful all over.’

This must be the right thing to say, because Nathan gets very affectionate and extremely desperate after hearing it, and soon he’s watching this other version of himself fuck into a writhing Irishman, the other him sitting back on his knees so he let the camera’s lens caress Nathan’s skin from moaning face all the way down to cock and balls caught in a long fingered hand and then to split open arse and then back up again, stopping every now and then to focus on how the other man is taking his cock, or the expressions the sensation is causing. 

Each thrust is so measured, so controlled— how is this Simon, this infant Simon, this immature, un-tempered version of himself able to fuck like that without losing control? To thrust so it’s obviously hitting Nathan where he likes it, the way that he likes it, without getting caught in the sensation himself? Without coming, squirting spunk all up the Irishman’s arse before he’s ready?— He’s not even sure _he_ could manage it now, if he found himself back then, where he should be, in Alisha’s arms. 

By now Nathan is coming to pieces, drool oozing from his mouth, eyes watering, hands flailing between grabbing at the sheets, his own hair, reaching for the other Simon. He seems almost like he’s forgotten his cock, bouncing against his abdomen— ‘Barry, Barry, Barry, Barry, Barry—’ he’s whining. Chanting almost, like an invocation.

It might as well be working on him. Bewitching him. His cock feels swollen to splitting, hard and aching throbbing with every beat of his heart, squirting more precum into his clean briefs. He hates this. He hates it. _Why is he watching_ —? He should leave, he should—

‘Come on, play with your cock,’ he hears the other him say, ‘I want to see you come.’

‘Don’t think I need to,’ Nathan slurs out, bleary eyed, ‘hitting me just right— Fuck Barry, you fuck me so good—’

‘It feels even better though, doesn’t it?’ the other him asks, ‘If you touch your cock too. I want you to feel good.’

‘I’ll come,’ Nathan whines. ‘I’ll come if I touch it—’

‘I want you to come,’ Simon reassures him.

The Irishman makes a strangled sound, fingers and toes curling in the air— ‘Promise you’ll keep going,’ he mewls. ‘Don’t stop while I finish.’

‘I won’t, I won’t,’ the other Simon promises, voice starting to crack, hips only just starting to stutter, hand holding the camera not even shaking. 

Nathan mewls again, hand flying to his cock, body convulsing at the first touch. The other Simon keeps his promise, fucking the Irishman through it, each thrust making Nathan spasm and cry out, almost delirious in the throws of it. 

He can’t stay around to watch the other him come— he thinks if he stays any longer he’ll end up either cumming in his trousers or pulling his cock out and wanking where they might see it. He needs to stay away, he needs— but he can’t go and watch Alisha with Curtis. He can’t _stand_ the idea, her coming apart under _his_ eyes, her looking at _his_ cock, her _wanting_ it the way Nathan _wants_ this Simon. 

It’s all broken. It’s all—

He limps away, cock hard and oversensitive and moments from going off, trying to ignore Nathan’s praiseful mewls behind him, the sound of his own voice grunting, the way Nathan calls out that he loves him—

_Loves_ —

He flees into the night, spunk cooling in another puddle near the one from the night before. 

He tries to stay away from all of them the next day, doesn’t wait nearby, doesn’t watch, doesn’t eavesdrop on any of their conversations, doesn’t lurk around waiting to see if the other Simon argues that they should do something about the man with the gun— whether Alisha agrees this time. Instead he paces in his hideout, wearing loose trousers instead of his uniform, eyes flicking from polaroid to polaroid, trying to work out when things went wrong— 

It’s all gone so wrong. 

So wrong.

_Wrong._

He even manages to keep away at night. To not go and watch his other self with Nathan. To not—

He feels like screaming. He’s becoming as much a pervert as the other man is. Even if he manages to correct the timeline—

He could. He could still do it. Still touch Alisha like he needs to, make love to her, make _her_ love him— even though his mind and cock have strayed, even though he’s wanked to the way Nathan is when he’s getting fucked. His heart hasn’t. It’s just— it’s weakness. He can fix this. He can.

He’s fixed himself before.

He wakes up on the day he dies— only he really does have no intention of dying this day. He gets suited up early and goes to watch, to make sure it happens as it’s supposed to. Sees the man with the gun chase down Alisha and Kelly, sees Kelly being taken. The only difference he can see is that the man doesn’t know which one of them is “Conti” this time, begins his demands to Alisha with ‘You tell Conti it’s time to stop hiding.’ He doubts it’ll make any difference. The whole thing feels inevitable. 

Some part of him knows he could step in, stop this now, but—

_This is what’s supposed to happen._

Only he doesn’t know how it’s going to end. All this time working up to this moment, all this planning, and— 

_He needs to keep Alisha alive._ Even if he doesn’t do it the way he’s supposed to, as long as she gets out of this situation alive he’s fulfilled some part of his final task. The rest he can work out later. 

The next step is to go to the Community Centre, to leave the game running for them to find. He does so, waits until they find it, then goes ahead to the warehouse, pacing back and forth on the roof— waiting. Trying not to listen to Kelly’s occasional grunts of pain down below. 

He can remember arriving at the warehouse back when it was him in that situation, Nathan arguing they should keep the money, become “successful” criminals— he creeps over to the edge of the roof as Shaun’s car arrives, listens— this time instead of going on about girlfriends with big breast implants Nathan is talking about buying a flat, or something, ‘Though not if we have to share the money with you lot— Not that you deserve it. It was Barry that did all the hard work.’

At least the other him hasn’t lost his way to the point he doesn’t argue— this Simon still talks about using his powers to help people— though it’s horrible the way this Nathan seems to find this endearing, instead of something to just dismiss. The Irishman coos about what a gentleman his “Barry” is, what a good man— 

He hears them kiss before Nathan gives some version of the same speech as last time. “Butch it up and play gangster—” Like that’s believable now. 

He feels weird. His heart is beating oddly, very fast, and feeling out of sync, and he feels cold, a little sick— it must just be the fact that it’s this close— the time is now. Almost now. He is supposed to die. He is.

He is choosing not to die. From this point onwards history is out of his hands. He’s fucked up. He’s going to have to break the cycle entirely— there’s no way it can be forced back on track—

From what he can hear the scene inside the warehouse pretty much goes the same as last time, even without the man with the gun knowing which one of them is Conti. He hears it, the tonal shift, next mission— the undercover cop. He knows what’s going to happen next— the chainsaw, Alisha, his own death setting the man onto the next mission— if he doesn’t die. If Conti— if the undercover cop— if _he_ doesn’t die, then what will happen? What will happen to Alisha?

He can’t though. He can’t— not the way things are now. He—

There is one thing he can do. One thing, the best plan he, the _him_ he, of last time had—

_Nathan._

He climbs down off the roof while he waits for the man to string them all up. He feels strange, underwater, elsewhere from himself as he approaches the red GTO— ‘Who are you?’ the man asks, pointing the gun at him.

‘Don’t you recognise me?’ he responds, voice muffled by his mask. ‘I’m Fat Tony. I’ve discovered who the undercover cop is.’

The man blinks, head twitching a little. ‘Fat Tony,’ he says, a plastic smile on his face, grabbing him into a one-armed hug. ‘Good to see you man.’

‘Good to see you too,’ he replies, hoping he sounds enough like a man named “Fat Tony” not to break the delusion. ‘The undercover cop is the white man with the dark, curly hair. The one you’ve got hanging up on the far left—’ and then, just in case it’s needed too to end this mission, ‘He’s also Conti.’

The man blinks, twitches again, then spins around and returns the way he came. He follows, at a bit of a distance, creeping in close—

He can hear Nikki in there, hear Alisha as well as Curtis talking to her as if they know her— and none of that stuff about breaking into her flat, Nathan shitting in her bed. That didn’t happen this time. He didn’t need to save Nathan—

_Save Nathan_ —

He feels really weird. 

Really, really weird.

He almost calls out to the man with the gun, says he was wrong, that it isn’t Nathan— 

Why?

_Why?_

He creeps into the warehouse, making sure to stay out of sight, listening as the man with the gun strings Nikki up. He waits to hear himself tell Nathan to say he’s the undercover cop. It doesn’t happen. ‘Nathan,’ the other Simon keeps saying, ‘Nathan. Nathan, _no._ ’

‘It’ll be fine,’ is what Nathan says. ‘I’ll be fine. Immortal, you know— hey!’ the last word is shouted at the man with the gun, ‘You! You wanted to know who the undercover cop is—?’

‘I know,’ the man replies. ‘It’s you, _Conti._ ’

There is the rattle of a chain, the sound of Nathan making little noises as he’s lowered to the ground, his own voice shouting. ‘Leave him alone! It’s not him! Don’t you _dare_ hurt him! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!’

_**Bang!** _

Screams. His own voice louder than the rest. The sound of something— something like a sack of flour, hitting the ground.

_**Bang!** _

‘ _I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU! I’M GOING TO RIP YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!’_ he hears himself bellow. ‘Nathan! _Nathan! **NATHAN!**_ ’

He inches closer to the edge of the wall, peers out. All of them still hanging there but Nathan, slumped on the ground, eyes open, two neat bullet holes through his head—

Heat. Nausea. Can’t breathe. 

He stumbles out the way he came, stripping off his mask, hunching against the outside wall of the warehouse as his body spasms, gut heaving, breakfast and bile propelling themselves up— splattering against the ground, running out of his nose. He can still hear himself shouting, hear the sounds of distress from the others—

As he’s leaning against the wall, wiping at his face, the man with the gun trots out of the door, not even looking at him, and piles into the red GTO as if he didn’t just shoot someone in the head twice — speeding off—

He hears a sound. A thump a little way away, looks up from his hunched pose and sees Nikki a way down the road leading into the warehouse, facing the other direction. He shoves his mask back over his head, ducks down to hide behind the car as she staggers over, calling out ‘Curtis! Alisha!’

‘We’re in here!’ he hears Alisha call back. 

She follows the sound of their voices, him waiting until she’s inside to scale the building, finding a vantage point to see— The other Simon is thrashing on his hook, shouting, tears spilling down his face. Kelly seems to be trying to comfort him, pointing out that Nathan is immortal— but the other him just bellows that they don’t know the limitations of it. That being shot in the head might not be the same as being impaled on a pipe—

He shudders, tries to remind himself that Nathan had his head beaten in by Jessica’s father. That’s the same, isn’t it? Nathan had woken up after that— Nausea surges again.

Nikki manages to get Curtis down, the two of them working together to get the others down, the other Simon falling to his knees beside Nathan immediately, cupping the side of his face, making this horrible, wounded noise— ‘I’ll kill him,’ he hears himself say again. Watches himself get to his feet and storm towards the exit, ignoring Kelly shouting ‘He’s gone mate! Come on, let’s get Nathan back to the Community Centre so he can wake up somewhere more comfortable!’

Outside the other him bellows in frustration, kicks a wall, then stalks back into the warehouse. He falls back to his knees beside Nathan, pulls the Irishman into his lap. ‘You have to wake up, please wake up, please, I love you, I need you—’

He can’t do this. He can’t— 

He almost fucks up the jump from the warehouse roof onto the neighbouring roof. His body feels cold, stiff, uncooperative. He’s panting, breaths fogging up inside his mask, making everything damp and soggy. 

Why didn’t he just stop the man? Why didn’t he just knock him out, rescue the others? He could have stayed in his costume— They wouldn’t have to know. Alisha wouldn’t necessarily have told them— Actually, she might have seen him as a hero if he had. That could have been the first step— the first—

He feels like he can’t breathe.

He tells himself that the guy would have just kept coming when he woke up, that it never would have ended, that more people would have died— Alisha could have died. They all could have died—

Died.

_Died._

The moment he’s home he strips off the mask— but it’s not just the condensation of his breath, is it? He’s crying. He’s crying. Crying. 

Later, after a long, warm shower. After an attempt to sleep. After a nightmare he can’t even remember. Later, in the dark, in the small hours— He creeps back to the Community Centre, breaks in. 

Simon is by Nathan’s bedside. Simon is crying. Nathan has been bathed, changed into some comfortable clothes. Nathan is still dead. 

Nathan is still _dead._

His heart clunks in his chest. 

He finds his usual spot, the place he can lurk and watch and he lurks and watches, waits—

Waits—

Waits—

The sun is just beginning to crest the horizon when Nathan twitches, sucks in a deep breath, mumbles ‘Barry,’ reaching for the other Simon. The other Simon makes a noise, a terrible noise, collapsing forward so he can rest his head over Nathan’s heart—

He leaves. Face wet again.


End file.
